


Last Nite

by beetle



Series: Coming Together [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribullavellan, Alpha Males, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boys In Love, Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, Failboats In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Humor, Friendship/Love, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Light Angst, M/M, Movie Night, Multi, Past Anders/Dorian Pavus, Pillow-Prince, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Pre-Threesome, Seduction, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 07:24:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11308542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Movie night with his best friends takes an unexpected turn for one Dorian Pavus, Esquire. The awkward/feels-y beginning of a porntastic series. Powered by The Strokes’ album, “Is This It.” Prompt in end notes.





	Last Nite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Modern-day AU. Proposed polyamory, consensual voyeurism, tentative exhibitionism.  
> ::is a Bioware trash-panda::

 

 

“And _why_ , exactly, did the veteran detective and his rookie partner _have_ to blow up the Tower of London and Buckingham Palace, again?”

 

Bull, sitting to the left of Dorian, didn’t even answer this confused and somewhat contemptuous complaint, merely leaned forward as if to hear and see the movie playing on the seventy-two inch 4K television better. Though Dorian was of the opinion that, if the movie was any more intensely loud and bright, they’d _all_ suffer permanent sensory and brain damage.

 

Not that Bull seemed to care, the thick-skulled lummox.

 

“It’s like I’m not even here,” Dorian muttered and, to his right, his best friend—and university, and law school-chum and contemporary, Tarran—reassumed his graceful perch on the edge of the sofa. He had two beverages, one in each hand; the bottle of _Maraas-Lok_ was handed past Dorian, to Tarran’s long-time lover, who took it without once glancing away from the utterly ridiculous film he’d chosen to subject them all to.

 

The other beverage, a _very_ full glass of quite respectable merlot, was handed, with a graceful flourish, to Dorian.

 

“Your refreshment, my liege,” Tarran intoned, his low voice both purring and laughing. The man was a _terrible_ flirt. Sometimes, Dorian wondered how someone as possessive and Alpha-male _dominant_ as Bull tolerated it. If Tarran was _Dorian’s_ lover—

 

Well, that was a train that’d sailed _years_ ago, and was best lost at sea. Any slight, whimsical notion Dorian might have formerly entertained of attempting to court the once infamously fickle and notoriously non-monogamous Tarran Lavellan had died a quiet and unceremonious death when the somewhat emotionally flighty, but also emotionally _available and open-hearted_ law-student had met Lieutenant Ron Bull.

 

Dorian glanced at the near-seven-foot tall, swarthy and brawny homicide detective to his left. Bull’s gray eye was wide and riveted on the screen, his _bloody_ awful beer forgotten in his oversized mitt. His rugged, stubbly, brutishly handsome face was as innocently enrapt as any child under its military-short and precise salt-and-pepper haircut. Almost charmingly _boyish_ in his preoccupation . . . except that said preoccupation was with the veteran cop apparently beating information from a craven and well-cast drug dealer on-screen. In the background, the young rookie cop was having near-hysterics and citing the very reasonable regulations _against_ that sort of treatment of prisoners. Regulations that the veteran ignored.

 

When said veteran laughed a jaded, gargling laugh and put his lit cigar out on the dealer’s forehead, Dorian rolled his eyes and made a disgusted face. The lawyer in him merely sighed and shook its head.

 

“Ha! That’s _classic_ McGonagall!” Bull rumbled next to him, slapping his own knee and leaning forward a bit more. Dorian rolled his eyes again and turned to Tarran, who’d apparently been watching him with his usual amusement and warmth. And somewhat _un_ -usual ponderousness.

 

“ _Dare_ I ask what thoughts are putting that look on your face, Lavellan? Or will you make me regret my curiosity?” Dorian asked, crooking one immaculately-shaped eyebrow at his friend. Tarran’s smile widened and he gave Dorian one of his coyest once-overs, his green eyes sweeping down, then back up in no particular hurry. Clearing his throat, then sipping his merlot, Dorian contrived not to blush like a shy virgin but, also as usual, almost certainly failed.

 

He’d never been able to remain his customary glib and snarky—some might say _bitchy_ —self under Tarran’s rather piercing, green gaze. Especially when it smoldered at and speculated so openly about him.

 

“Hmm,” Tarran hummed, reaching for his own neglected beverage, which sat on his and Bull’s sturdy, terribly _middle_ - _American_ coffee table. He took a sip of said beverage— _peach iced tea_ , of all things, also _terribly_ American and objectively _vile_ . . . but then, Tarran had been in the States for markedly longer than Dorian had, and had long since gone native—and regarded Dorian with a gaze that danced and laughed. Then he brushed his shoulder-length, asymmetrically cut red hair over his narrow shoulder. “How’s that merlot treating you, Dorian?”

 

 _Not_ what Dorian had expected Tarran to say . . . though what he _had_ expected, he didn’t quite know. “Oh! Well, er, it’s . . . quite startlingly decent, compared to the swill you and Bull usually keep on hand,” he said with dismissive praise, flustered for some reason and looking down at his already half-empty glass.

 

“A compliment? On our choice of merlot?” Tarran’s messy, red brows shot up and he chuckled. “Who _are_ you and what’ve you done with Dorian Pavus, Esquire?”

 

Dorian snorted, but smiled. “Gave him the night off, don’t you know? All those eighty-plus-hours work-weeks he’s been putting in at the firm lately were sucking the _life_ out of the poor sod.”

 

“Tell me about it,” Tarran agreed, his long lashes fluttering as his eyes went half-mast for a few moments. Then he was beaming at Dorian again. “How’re things going with that handsome doctor you were seeing—er . . . Flanders?”

 

“ _Anders_. And they’re going nowhere,” Dorian added tersely, taking another indelicate gulp of his merlot. “He decided to give things with his ex another go. Some philosophy professor at the University—Carl something-or-other.”

 

“Hmm, that’s . . . .” Tarran said again, with sincere compassion and empathy, but clearly didn’t know how to finish the statement. Dorian couldn’t blame him. Finally, Tarran sighed and put his long, graceful hand on Dorian’s knee gently . . . and left it there. “Well, I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you as a couple. But then . . . I rather had a _feeling_ they wouldn’t. You two were . . . an attractive, but not very obvious pairing. It was apples and oranges, really. Cats and tortoises.”

 

Dorian sniffed at Tarran’s pitiful attempt at delicacy and at metaphor. “Yes, well. It would’ve been nice if you’d informed _me_. Preferably _before_ I introduced him to my parents over Skype! They already think homosexuality has doomed their precious, only child to a life of meaningless, perverted, no-strings sex with strange men in unsavory places. They _don’t_ need to know I’m a gay, male version of Taylor Swift!”

 

“Oh, come, now,” Tarran tutted kindly, his hand sliding up a bit, so that it was half on Dorian’s knee and half on his lower thigh. Dorian noticed this, but didn’t make anything of it. Tarran was, after all, an extremely tactile person. Always hugging and touching and leaning into one. “You’re not nearly _that_ bad.”

 

Dorian scoffed. “If I had an ear for writing catchy pop songs about all my failed love-affairs, the resemblance would be truly uncanny, Tarran.”

 

Chuckling again, Tarran squeezed Dorian’s knee, then moved his hand a bit higher. It was all thigh, now. Dorian had to fight _not_ to glance down in utter startlement and confusion, which would turn what was most likely nothing but Tarran being _Tarran_ , into something that would make them all uncomfortable and awkward with each other for the foreseeable future.

 

“While I’ve never met Ms. Swift, you, Dorian Pavus, are a lovely man. Bright, funny, charming, sweet, honorable, and bloody _gorgeous_.” Tarran gave Dorian another once-over that was pointed, rather than coy. “You could have anyone you wanted. Anyone at all.”

 

“Hardly,” Dorian muttered ruefully, his leg twitching as he fought the instinct to ease his thigh away from Tarran’s . . . disturbingly galvanizing touch.

 

“It’s true,” Tarran averred, his hand drifting a bit higher again. It was squarely at mid-thigh, now. Dorian flushed and gritted his teeth, thinking the least sexy thoughts at his immediate command. Though, he instantly wished he hadn’t.

 

Memories of Mother Giselle, the devout Catholic nun Dorian’s vaguely _Anglican_ father had recruited to help try and . . . _cure_ Dorian, once upon a teenhood, flooded his mind. He made an unhappy moue, taking another gulp of his merlot. Just the merest _thought_ of that pious, old, god-bothering hen made Dorian want to throw a fit of epic proportions.

 

Or, perhaps, merely throw up.

 

“You just need to . . . find more suitable partners,” Tarran said, as if it was that easy, and Dorian huffed, suddenly feeling quite pissy. Between his own horrible streak of relationships, thoughts of his parents trying to have him brainwashed, memories of said _attempts_ at brainwashing, and the carefully-stuffed-down regrets and feelings of having been cheated out of Tarran . . . possibly the only person he might’ve ever made it _work_ _with_ . . . not to mention the perhaps unwise speed and dedication with which he’d been guzzling merlot all evening . . . Dorian Pavus was beyond his usual blasé detachment.

 

“‘Find more suitable partners’? _Really_? I hadn’t _thought_ of that, oh, wise one! Thanks, _ever_ so much for that sage-like advice!” he exclaimed with strident sarcasm, scowling down at his last sips of merlot, because it was near-impossible to be stroppy with Tarran whilst looking into those earnest eyes. “Whatever would I _do_ without you to remind me what comes after inhale and refreshing me on how to tie my shoes?”

 

“Dorian,” Tarran murmured softly, barely audible under Bull’s sudden: “That’s right, McGonagall! Fuck _all_ that shit up, buddy! BOOM goes the dynamite!” after a jarringly loud explosion on-screen. A glance _at_ that massive screen showed what appeared to be the stubby, smoking remains of Big Ben.

 

Because . . . _of course_.

 

Tarran’s hand inched higher, still, and Dorian twitched, fought a moan that would’ve been embarrassingly telling, and cast a waspish glare at his simultaneously understanding and oblivious best friend. A glare that avoided those keen, kind eyes and focused on those untamed brows. “Don’t _Dorian_ _me_ , Tarran Lavellan, with your bloody ridiculous true-love and happily-ever-after relationship! You’ve no idea what it’s like having _no_ prospects and no _hope_ of either. So, I’ll thank you _not_ to oversimplify my perfectly valid feelings of loneliness and despair!”

 

“Dorian,” Tarran said again, even lower, and nearly drowned out by Bull rewinding and replaying the destruction of Big Ben and of the surrounding area. And also, of course, by Bull’s impressed cheering in the aftermath.

 

 _Ugh_ , Dorian though wearily, shooting the last of his merlot like a frat-boy. “Whatever trite, optimistic twaddle you’re about to spout, Lavellan, I _don’t_ care to hear it. Also, I’ll thank you _not_ to move that hand any higher, unless you’re planning on following that trail you’re on to its . . . logical conclusion,” he snarked quietly, but just loud enough that Tarran would hear it. While Bull, hopefully, wouldn’t.

 

Really, angry though he was, and depressed, he had no desire to sow trouble between his two closest friends. Tarran didn’t deserve Bull’s anger and _Bull_ didn’t deserve the horrible self-doubt that came from the person one loved showing interest in another . . . no matter how playful and in-passing.

-

“ _Dorian_ ,” Tarran said for a third time, slightly louder, and something in his tone made Dorian risk a glance up, even as Tarran’s hand moved not only higher, but slightly inward. Any _too much_ further, and Tarran would find out more about his best friend than _aught_ he knew.

 

But when he met Tarran’s eyes, he saw not only kindness there, and the man’s usual coy flirtiness, but . . . knowledge. Understanding. And . . . _desire_ . . . as strong as it was reciprocated.

 

Those dark, clear-green eyes were smoldering and inviting and promising . . . all the -ings Dorian had ever wanted from Tarran and had also resigned himself to _never_ having. _Ever_.

 

And the hand on Dorian’s thigh . . . was very much _not_ on his _thigh_ , anymore.

 

Tarran held his gaze meaningfully, challengingly—with an amazingly _serene_ face for a man who was fondling his best friend’s balls and half-hard cock, while his _very large_ _boyfriend_ sat not a foot away—those mesmerizing eyes as determined as they were aroused.

 

A soft, mortifying sound escaped Dorian’s slightly parted lips before he bit the bottom one to keep any other regrettable sounds from emerging. Tarran smiled. Or perhaps it was technically a smirk. It was very smug and self-satisfied.

 

Yet, no less compelling and sensually overwhelming, for all that.

 

“Listen,” Dorian managed to get out, high and whistling and strained, while the hand cupping his groin squeezed harder than he was _used_ _to_ enjoying, but not _so_ hard that he couldn’t imagine himself getting used to it in a hurry. “Tarran, listen. . . .”

 

“Oh, but I _have been_ listening, Dorian,” Tarran murmured with breathtaking intimacy, leaning in closer and closer, until his green-green eyes and vanilla-cloves-nutmeg scent were Dorian’s entire universe. “I’ve been listening to the things you say, and the things you _don’t_ say. So has Bull.”

 

Suddenly, forcibly reminded of the gigantic and aggressive man at his side and back, Dorian didn’t dare to turn his head, even as his eyes widened and he tried to shift his crotch away from Tarran’s very determined hand.

 

All he succeeded in doing was thrusting up into the other man’s almost punishing grip and making _himself_ almost instantly harder.

 

“Bull—” he began in a husking and horrified—he really had _no_ interest in dying young and pretty, no matter _how_ thematically appropriate—whisper. Tarran’s smirk became a wry grin. “He—” _is sitting_ right here _, you absolute lunatic!_

 

“Ah, yes. _Bull_ was the one who brought your . . . interest to my attention. Showed me how to read between your lines, as it were,” Tarran said offhandedly, when Dorian proved incapable of finishing his thought under the sensual assault of that surprisingly relentless and enticingly shameless hand. “Perhaps I was too close to you to see it—perhaps I simply wasn’t _ready_ to see it. To see how much you’ve been wanting. And hurting. And _suffering_.”

 

Tarran’s grin faded and his eyes flickered with regret and sadness . . . and affinity. That last floored Dorian completely . . . left him gaping and unable to do anything but respond in the most primal way to Tarran’s almost _painfully_ perfect cock-teasing.

 

“You’ve been waiting and soldiering on for all this time . . . so lonely and disheartened and afraid. . . .” Tarran sighed, his brow furrowing and his gaze dropping for a few moments. When he looked back up at Dorian, that intent, intense affinity was there again, plain and unhidden, but there was more than that. Affection and love were present, too. And _desire_ . . . _of course_. Tarran found him attractive, Dorian knew. Tarran also _loved_ him, Dorian knew that, too. He loved Tarran, as well, and quite deeply. The man was kind and quiet, brilliant and funny, sweet and affable.

 

And _beautiful_. Inside and out. And in a way that Dorian had fallen in love with very early in their friendship.

 

As that friendship grew, so had Dorian’s love. Both types of it: the love of a true friend and kindred spirit, and the love of a man who’d found the other half of his lonely heart.

 

With time, he’d become adept at ignoring the latter, while clinging to the former, and doing his best to make sure the twain would _never_ meet.

 

They never had, until now. Until looking into Tarran’s emotive, soulful eyes and seeing everything he’d ever felt for this unattainable man reflected back at him. _Focused on him_.

 

On _Dorian_.

 

Utterly thrown and confused—convinced he’d finally gone delusional—Dorian blinked and moaned softly. It was, thankfully, lost under another explosion in rogue cop-land . . . though one wondered _what,_ in England, there was _left_ to blow up!

 

The Parliament House was _so_ been there, done that, after all. So _terribly_ _gauche_ and Guy Fawkes-ian.

 

“I have wanted you _desperately_ since the moment we met, Dorian Pavus,” Tarran said simply, once more apologetic and . . . hopeful. “But it never occurred to me that someone like _you_ . . . someone so goal-oriented, pulled-together, and with his eyes on the prize would ever consider a relationship with someone like _me_. Oh, I had a feeling you _might_ let me tumble you a few times, just out of curiosity or boredom. But I just knew you’d never, in a million years, want to pursue anything _beyond_ that with me. And knowing myself as I do, I was afraid that if I had you like that once, I’d . . . never be able to get over you when the idyll ended.”

 

Still gaping, Dorian’s brow furrowed and he shook his head. “You . . . want me?” he asked in a smaller voice than any he’d ever heard from himself. Tarran smiled again, and he leaned closer still.

 

“Dorian . . . I _love_ you. Much more than a friend. And I _have done_ for years.”

 

“But . . . _Bull_. . . .”

 

That smile turned wry. “Oh, I love _him_ , too. Endlessly and forever, even. But the thing is, Dorian,” Tarran said earnestly, as if wanting to explain himself very specifically, to a stunned and puzzled Dorian. “The thing _is_ . . . I love _both_ of you that way. I’m _in love_ with _both_ of you. I couldn’t choose between you even if I wanted to—and I _don’t_ —and even if I _tried_ —which I haven’t. And Bull . . . has never _asked_ me to. Not once, though he’s always known how I feel for you. So, I’m hoping . . . that perhaps you won’t ask me to choose, either . . . knowing how I feel for _him_. That . . . that you can see your way to letting me _follow_ both halves of my heart, at last. Because I’ve been living for _so long_ with one-half of it just out of reach—but for what I imagined was _forever_ —that I can’t even remember what it feels like _not_ to be the walking wounded and bleeding on the inside.”

 

Letting out a hard, heavy breath, Dorian blinked and tears ran down his face. Leave it to Tarran to not only know Dorian’s heart and heartbreak, but to _understand_ it . . . and express it with an honest, simple elegance that was, itself, heartbreaking and heart-mending.

 

“I . . . I don’t know what to say,” he breathed, numb and giddy and scared out of his rational mind, of a sudden. He’d been alone inside his own heartache and despair for so long . . . that to now have company in his misery was a bit nerve-wracking.

 

Tarran’s smile grew warmer, tender, and amused. “Dorian Pavus? Speechless? But what a _strange_ alternate universe I’ve turned up in!”

 

“Prat.” Dorian snorted and tried on a smile of his own. Tarran chuckled and his hand on Dorian’s crotch—which had stilled at some point—resumed its previous teasing, only gently. Dorian swore and groaned. “And I’m definitely _not_ going to _figure out_ what to say if you keep distracting me, you bloody-awful tease! Give me a moment to think, at least!”

 

Another chuckle, wicked and promising, and then those eyes were very, _very_ close once more. Dorian was so caught in the translucent green of them, so busy hopscotching from random gold flecks to random gray ones, that he started and squeaked when large, heavy, powerful hands settled on his waist and a hot, but gentle breath gusted past his ear.

 

“Anyone ever tell you you _think too much_ , Pavus?” Bull rumbled hungrily, before nuzzling Dorian’s ear in way that sent a surprisingly deep and extended shudder through him. He absently noted the now-lowered volume of the movie and the sort martial, vaguely patriotic music he'd come to expect from ending-credits of the movies Bull favored.

 

The timing of all this was conspicuously superb.

 

“Only . . . only people who don’t think nearly as much as they _should_ have ever said that to me,” he tried to scoff again, but it came out as a breathless near-whine. Bull chuckled.

 

“Touche. Well, then, lemme bottom-line things, then lay down some guidelines and ground rules—since you seem to be comfortable with those and I tend to be the same—and you can decide what it is you want, and what it is you’re willing to accept. Sound good?”

 

Dorian could only whimper his assent as Bull’s teeth found purchase in his earlobe, nibbling with focus and intent.

 

“Bottom-line, in a nutshell is: we _want_ your fine ass. Have for a _long_ time. And we’re _very_ tired of waiting patiently for _you_ to come to _us_.”

 

As Bull said this, Tarran was unzipping Dorian’s fly with a far too innocent look on his peachy, gamin face. He slipped his hand inside the tan skinny jeans and navigated his way past the underwear Dorian very much wasn’t wearing underneath. His brows quirked up in question and Dorian huffed a laugh.

 

“Boxer-lines are _never_ attractive, but especially under jeans.”

 

“Ah,” Tarran said, his lips twitching. Then, Dorian was arching up into the other man’s warm, possessive, bold touch, another moan burbling out of him rather loudly. Bull chuckled again and his left hand traveled slowly up Dorian’s torso, causing another shiver, and not stopping until his fingers found Dorian’s left nipple. He teased it to semi-hardness as Dorian shivered and gasped, then pinched it quite roughly, with clearly calculated strength.

 

“We will _never_ hurt you, Dorian,” he promised with one of his seemingly random lapses into sincerity and solemnity . . . but surprisingly little irony. “Not without your permission. You will _always_ be safe with us.” With a soft, breathy hum in Dorian’s ear, Bull went on: “If you’re _ever_ uncomfortable, if you ever want us to _stop_ , you say _katoh_ , and it’s over. No questions asked.”

 

“K-Kah- _what_?”

 

“You heard me, ambulance-chaser.” Bull chuckled once again, rather dangerously, and it sent an unexpected thrill through Dorian that Tarran’s hand on him, clever and quick, only intensified.

 

“It’s a little unnerving that he has this down to a system, isn’t it?” Tarran noted with dry fondness, his eyes wandering up over Dorian’s shoulder as he continued to work Dorian’s cock. He blew his boyfriend a saucy, but sweet kiss and Bull hummed happily, running his tongue up Dorian’s now-sensitive lobe and auricle. Then he gusted a cool jet of air on the wet, worked-over flesh.

 

Dorian lost the plot, his final year of law school, and nearly the last remaining dregs of his self-control. Thankfully, he was trying so hard not to come all over Tarran’s wrist that the: _Oh, sweet Lord, take me!_ came out as just another gurgling whimper.

 

So much for Dorian’s famed wit and charm.

 

“Systems are comfortable, _kadan_. And our goal is for Dorian. . . .” Bull’s tongue darted _into_ Dorian’s ear, which caused a prolonged shiver and a high, startled cry “. . . to get _very_ comfortable, yes?”

 

“Quite. You make an excellent point, Bull. As ever.” Tarran’s gaze returned to Dorian, assessing and hopeful. “So . . . how’re we doing at that, by the way? Making you feel . . . comfortable, that is?”

 

Dorian barked a breathless laugh as Tarran ran his finger across the tip of his cock. “Er, not terribly well? I’m feeling m-many things, right at this moment, and _comfortable_ is _not_ at the top of that list.”

 

“We’ll take that as a compliment,” Tarran decided, glancing at Bull again with an unreadable look on his face. Then he shrugged and met Dorian’s wide eyes once more. “So, that’s the most important ground rules, right there. Now, I suppose we should . . . clarify what everyone’s roles and expectations are for the proceedings. Just so there’re as few awkward moments as possible, mind.”

 

“But, of course,” Dorian blithely went along with another laugh, as if he wasn’t completely in shock and utterly convinced he was having some sort of embolism, and this was his dark-tunnel-and-white-light moment. “ _Terrible_ things, those awkward moments!”

 

“Agreed,” Bull breathed on his cheek, and that huge, but precise hand switched from Dorian’s left nipple, to his right, to Dorian’s dazed, but whole-hearted approval. “So, since I’m the Alpha-male, here, I’m gonna just put it out there. My role is _exactly_ that: _the_ _Alpha_ -male. I make sure everyone’s taken care of, and no one gets hurt or left out. My expectations for tonight are fairly basic.” He paused, moving his lips back to Dorian’s ear. “I’m gonna kick back for a bit and let you two get to know each other . . . get the lay of the land, so to speak. I might do a little . . . directing, here and there, but mostly, I’m gonna _watch_ _you two play_. And then, I’m gonna fuck the both of you till you’re begging me to stop making you come. _Then_ . . . I’m gonna fuck you a little _more_. After that . . . cuddling.”

 

“Cuddling,” Dorian echoed shakily, blinking up at Tarran, since he couldn’t shift to see if Bull was joking or not. Tarran grinned.

 

“Yes. Always demands his cuddles after, does Bull. Big softy.”

 

“Hey, I’m comfortable enough in my masculinity to claim the cuddles I _deserve_. _And_ the snuggles,” Bull added assertively, after a slight pause. Tarran rolled his eyes.

 

“Of course. You big girl’s blouse,” he muttered with exasperated affection. Then he was leaning in once more, until the tip of his cool, almost pixie-ish noise was brushing Dorian’s warm, classically aristocratic one. Dorian’s eyes fluttered shut and he sighed.

 

“ _My_ role is basically that of a switch. Bull’s going to fuck _me_ , of course. But first, I’m . . . rather eager to fuck _you_. Though I _certainly_ wouldn’t turn my nose up at _you_ fucking me, too.” Tarran hummed thoughtfully. “Perhaps we might try Bull _and_ I fucking you. Sometime soon, ideally.”

 

“Sequentially, one presumes,” Dorian’s inner-attorney squeaked out, even as Tarran’s lips brushed his. He could taste the other man’s peach tea-sweet mouth already.

 

“Mm . . . _concurrently_ , was my hope,” Tarran breathed in a voice so low it made Dorian’s bone-marrow quiver.

 

“Eh, that might be rushing things a bit, _kadan_ . . . I’m not entirely certain he’s ready for that level of . . . intimacy with more than one person. Also, I’m not sure that between the two of us, we wouldn’t tear him open like a bag of Doritos,” Bull added absently, his details-oriented, Alpha-mind clearly on logistics and practicalities.

 

Tarran was, quite likely, rolling his eyes. He rarely gave a toss for the nuts and bolts of a plan, only the big picture.

 

“You’ve . . . got a way with words, Bull.” Tarran’s lips shaped on Dorian’s, before capturing them in a tender, teasing, kiss that didn’t last nearly long enough. But it left Dorian gasping, nonetheless, as Tarran sat back just enough to look into his eyes.

 

“Mm. I do what I can,” Bull rumbled, leaning forward as he left off teasing Dorian’s right nipple to nudge his chin. When Dorian turned his head toward Bull’s, he got kissed by full, surprisingly soft and supple lips. A dominant, but not domineering tongue mapped-out Dorian’s mouth obviously chasing traces of Tarran’s peach tea-taste, but also just as obviously savoring Dorian’s darker, tarter merlot-tang.

 

Bull kissed him for rather longer than Tarran had, taking his time at it and staking a claim Dorian didn’t bother to gainsay. And when Bull finally let him up for oxygen, Dorian was harder than ever and panting. Tarran had, while Bull was sucking the enamel off his teeth, maneuvered Dorian’s jeans most of the way down to his calves. Now, he was exploring Dorian’s cock with gentle fingertips . . . following veins and collecting the precome gathering at the tip.

 

When he brought his finger to his mouth and sucked it clean with extravagant appreciation, all while holding Dorian’s wide, stunned gaze, Dorian moaned in what was very nearly agony. His eyes fluttered briefly shut, if only to prevent him from coming prematurely and ruining this insane wet-dream-come-true.

 

“Damn, _kadan_ . . . you sure know how to rev a guy’s engine,” Bull noted with both pride and hunger. Tarran smirked around his finger, but continued to stare at Dorian with wide, fiery-fierce eyes. Swallowing, Dorian somehow found his voice again.

 

“And . . . _my_ role in this . . . _whatever_ is about to happen?” he asked quietly, licking suddenly dry lips. He peered at Tarran from between his lashes. “What happens the morning after? When that awkwardness you’re so keen to avoid is unavoidable, and you have to find a firm, but polite way of telling me _thanks, Dorian, that was glorious! Now, sod off_?”

 

Tarran glanced at Bull again, eyebrows lifting as if in question. Bull nodded, his nose brushing the side of Dorian’s face as he did.

 

“We, er . . . were _hoping_ you might want to . . . stick around for a bit. Maybe even for longer than that. Maybe see where this—” Tarran gestured at all three of them “—could go.”

 

“You . . . you mean like . . . a standing arrangement, of some sort? Regular threeways, every other Wednesday evening, like church Bingo?” Dorian asked after the anticipatory, anxious silence drew out. Tarran and Bull exchanged _another_ look, and when Tarran’s gaze settled on Dorian again, Bull was the one who spoke.

 

“We were actually kinda hangin’ our hats on you wanting to . . . _be_ with us. You know. _With us_. Feelings, and shit.”

 

“You mean . . . a _relationship_?” Dorian’s voice on that last word sounded uncomfortably like his mother’s frequently-scandalized squawks. He cleared his throat and tried again in a marginally lower voice. “Like, an actual relationship?”

 

“ _Exactly_ like a relationship, Dorian,” Tarran said warmly. “We want you to be _more_ than our lover. We want more than fun. We want you to be our _partner_.”

 

Dorian’s wide eyes went wider, still. “You’re joking, yes?”

 

Bull snorted. “If you just wanna be our pretty, willing, submissive little come-dumpster . . . hey, that’s fine, by me,” he said, which garnered an exasperated and stern look from Tarran.

 

“Dorian, we _both_ want _all_ of you. And we want _you_ to want all of _us_. No holding back, no double standards. Full partnership.” Tarran shrugged haplessly. “Or we at least want to see if we can make such an unlikely and outlandish relationship work.”

 

“But what if it _doesn’t_?” Dorian’s inner-lawyer persisted meekly, but gravely. “There’s rather a lot at stake between the three of us . . . emotionally-speaking,” the lawyer added with a sigh. Dorian cursed the blighter roundly. And its fortuitous—but horrible—timing.

 

“It’s a bit of a risk, yes,” Tarran agreed quietly, then corrected himself wryly. “More than a bit. But, Dorian . . . you’re _worth_ that risk. A _thousand_ times over. Perhaps . . . perhaps Bull and I might be worth that same risk for _you_.”

 

Heaving another sigh, Dorian closed his eyes again. The red darkness behind his lids was the closest he could get to space and privacy to _think_.

 

It was terribly unfortunate, then, that his brain was about as cooperative as an opposing counsel.

 

And, oh, certainly, his inner-lawyer had _all_ the things to say, of course. Made _many_ excellent and logical points _against_ this proposed absurdity.

 

But its offended sensibilities and missish prudery were drowned out by Bull’s big, possessive-protective arms around him and his warm, steady breath on Dorian’s cheek.

 

And by Tarran’s tangible, but gently yearning gaze and boundless hope.

 

 _I could fall in love with them,_ Dorian realized with something akin to an epiphany. Then he remembered his years-long infatuation with Tarran. _Well, I suppose I’m already halfway there. . . ._

 

“On a side note, Pavus? Not for nothin’, but you have a _fantastic_ ass,” Bull said fervently, but apropos of absolutely nothing. And yet, it was somehow apropos of . . . _everything_. Dorian shook his head and laughed, upping that halfway to a bemused and cautious two-thirds. “The first thing Tarran and I really _bonded_ over was how _bad_ we both wanted to eat you out and all the _inventive_ things we dreamed about _doing_ to _dat ass_ , tho!”

 

“Oh, for the love of—” Dorian blurted out, blushing, and grinning idiotically. Bull laughed and Tarran watched them both, then leaned close to steal a kiss from Dorian, then from Bull. Tarran’s hands settled on Dorian’s chest, light, but firm. As Tarran’s kiss with Bull drew out, Dorian dared to place his hands on the other attorney’s waist.

 

Tarran rumbled into his and Bull’s kiss, and Dorian took that as encouragement, gripping Tarran’s hips and urging him closer. When Tarran obliged, Dorian slipped his hands under the sprung waistband of the other man’s drawstring, cotton trousers, then slid them ‘round to his arse. Another encouraging moan saw Dorian squeezing and kneading his modest, but _very_ nice double handful, while burying his face in Tarran’s shoulder. That vanilla-cloves-nutmeg scent was as potent an aphrodisiac as any Dorian had ever tried. It, more than anything else, caused a lion’s roar of need and want to sweep him out to sea.

 

Bull’s large right hand dropped into Dorian’s lap to take over where Tarran had left off stroking him. A hissed _fuck!_ escaped Dorian’s lips and Bull chuckled.

 

“I . . . I think I know what your role’s gonna be in this happy little _ménage_ , Pavus,” he broke the increasingly heated kiss to say slyly. Dorian nosed Tarran’s collar bone and neck, inhaling that perfect, familiar scent.

 

“Do enlighten us, love,” Tarran replied for both himself and Dorian. Bull’s hand left off stroking Dorian’s cock and moved lower to squeeze his balls promisingly. Dorian choked out another garbled expletive and Bull hummed his approval, his middle finger tracing a trail backwards, along Dorian’s perineum. Dorian shifted, lifting his pelvis with eager alacrity, to give the larger man all the access he required.

 

“I think,” Bull drawled slowly, “you’re gonna be our pampered, little pillow-prince.”

 

“Wh-whaah?” Dorian was more than a little distracted by Bull’s thick, calloused fingertip edging closer to a place which _Dorian_ had certainly never expected it to go.

 

“Tarran and I are gonna spoil you _rotten_ —that is, more than you’ve already been, you big ol' fop,” Bull said with amused fondness. Dorian huffed disdainfully, but the second half of that huff was part giggle, and thus not especially effective. “We’re gonna make up for time lost and learn every inch of that smokin’-hot body of yours. Every nook and cranny. Every crevice. Every erogenous zone. We’re gonna _devour_ _you_ like Thanksgiving dinner, Dorian Pavus. One hot, fine-ass mouthful at a time.”

 

“That . . . was disturbingly arousing,” Dorian admitted breathlessly as Bull withdrew his finger with tortuous slowness, and with more than a bit of unnecessary—appreciated—caressing on the way. Then that big hand settled on Dorian’s abdomen with gentle possessiveness.

 

“Yeah. I’m good with the metaphors and similes.”

 

“I suppose I can’t argue with _that_ ,” Dorian said, for the very first time in his life. Then he met Tarran’s smoldering, green gaze, and glanced around into Bull’s hooded, heated gray one. “With _any_ of it, really.”

 

Even though it was hardly possible, Tarran’s lovely face lit up even more. “So, you’re . . . willing to give this—give _us_ a try?”

 

Dorian nodded once, throwing his customary caution—which was _not_ unearned—to the wind. After all, he trusted Tarran _completely_. And Tarran trusted _Bull_ completely.

 

That was, for the moment, good enough to be going on with. And a far better prospect than loneliness and his own bad luck with dating.

 

“Yes,” Dorian said, and Tarran beamed at him and Bull.

 

“I’m _ridiculously_ in love with both of you,” he said, earnest and open and almost near tears, it seemed. From sheer joy and excitement. “I’m so glad to have you both _at last_.”

 

“You’re a very lucky man, _kadan_ ,” Bull teased gently, tenderly. “And so are we.”

 

“Quite,” Dorian added, and found himself being kissed silly a bare moment later by an enthusiastic and talented Tarran.

 

“Now,” Bull rumbled, rough and commanding, as Tarran leaned back out of the kiss, which had left Dorian stupefied. Those ecstatic green eyes flashed with heat _and_ fire, ticking from Dorian to Bull, and back again, clearly ready to take some . . . direction. And Bull was clearly ready to oblige. “It’s time to put that gorgeous mouth of yours to better use than _talkin’_.”

 

Tarran smirked, then slithered shamelessly to the floor between Dorian’s spread legs, taking the annoying skinny jeans with him. Dorian gaped and goggled, as Tarran eyed his cock with intense hunger and anticipation—licking his lips, too. Bull grunted his continued approval, his arms around Dorian squeezing tight and grounding. Which was rather nice, as Dorian was suddenly certain that without that grounding, he, himself, might fly apart from sheer joy.

 

“That's right, beloved . . . on your knees,” Bull purred indulgently at Tarran, while nuzzling Dorian’s temple. Tarran, for his part, obviously didn’t even need to be told once. His graceful hands braced themselves firmly on Dorian’s calves as he leaned forward, and . . . put his mouth to better use than _talkin’_. Dorian gasped, then moaned, then sank helplessly deeper into Bull’s embrace. “It’s time to welcome our _kadan_ home _right_. At last.”

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t shoot me for the fade to black! This felt like a natural place to end it and, quite honestly, I ran out of strength. But this _is_ a series, so . . . this is literally just the awkward, feels-y beginning bits. The preliminaries and foreplay, as it were. There’s more to come . . . I promise.
> 
> /Reyes Vidal 
> 
> Stitchcasual’s prompt: _how about adoribulavellan fluff, post movie snuggles or something_
> 
> Come scream at me on [Tumblr](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


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